


A Series of Vignettes -- Lookaway

by werelupewoods



Category: Neopets
Genre: Flirting, Love, M/M, cute stuff idk i just rlly love fluff my dudes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-27
Updated: 2016-12-27
Packaged: 2018-09-12 13:26:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,390
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9073846
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/werelupewoods/pseuds/werelupewoods
Summary: " “...Why are you looking at me like that?”
  Simeon asks the question this time.  And Kanrik is snapped out of his daydream with a bit of a start, raising his eyes in a mild sort of panic. “Umm...” " A little series of stuff based on the silly "why are you looking at me like that?" trope that I am, unfortunately, a huge sucker for, ahaha.





	

I:

Kanrik’s not wearing a shirt when Simeon enters the thief’s room.

Maybe he did it on purpose, though. He knew that Simeon was coming over after he completed tonight’s contract — they’d made dinner plans together, after all — and he’s pretty good at guessing how long Simeon’s jobs take to finish. It wouldn’t be the first time Simeon has entered Kanrik’s chambers to find him “accidentally” undressed, either. Kanrik tends to make that “mistake” a lot when he’s feeling cocky.

Er, no pun intended.

But when Kanrik hears the soft _whoosh_ ing of the smoke from Simeon’s teleportation spell settling in the air, he spins around looking legitimately surprised.

Simeon’s eyes widen a bit as he sees Kanrik breathe in sharply, then stumble back, awkwardly holding the loosely folded tunic in his hands in front of him as if to cover himself. Simeon can’t help but lift a hand to hide his snickering as he watches Kanrik’s expression quickly shift from shock, to relief, to confusion, to embarrassment, all within the same second. Eventually, though, Kanrik’s face falls into an honest annoyance. “Having fun, are you?” the thief says with a snort, then turns back around to put the tunic he holds away and begin searching for something else.

Kanrik can’t see, but Simeon lifts his hands in a mock surrender — as he so often does when he doesn’t _actually_ feel sorry for something. “My apologies, Kani,” he says, though his smile is clearly audible in his tone. “I’ve just never seen you look so _shocked_ to be caught shirtless before.”

Kanrik rolls his eyes so aggressively at the snipe that he throws his head back, then shakes his head as he looks back down. He pulls another top out of the drawer that he’s elbows-deep in — a royal red with a golden trim — then decides to casually ignore Simeon’s snarkiness and instead refocus on trying to find something suitable to wear. He holds the shirt out in front of him, frowns a bit, flips it around, then huffs loudly, blowing a lock of tangled black hair out of his eyes with the breath. “I’m just...” He huffs again, then tosses the shirt over his shoulder to Simeon, who hardly reacts fast enough to catch it. “Hold this,” Kanrik then says, though the shirt is already in Simeon’s hands and Kanrik’s arms are already back in the drawer.

All signs of cockiness leave Simeon’s expression as he watches Kanrik toss things about. He chuckles again, though it’s in an honest confusion this time — a nervous reflex. “Kani, what on Neopia are you doing?” he eventually asks.

Kanrik huffs for a third time. “I’m just... trying to find something to wear,” he says, his words slow at first — as if he’s embarrassed to admit it — though they morph into taunting blatancy by the end of the sentence.

Simeon still can’t stop snickering. “Kanrik, you look fine in whatever,” he says, his tone earnest.

Kanrik places his hands firmly on the edge of the drawer, glaring at the clothing inside — as if scolding all the garments for not being what he wants them to be — then bats a hand awkwardly behind him. “Just... help me decide on something,” he says, now sounding embarrassed again.

Simeon rolls his eyes, but... whatever. He shrugs to himself a bit, then takes a seat on the edge of the bed to his left. “I’m not sure why you’re asking _me_ for help, of all people,” he says, folding the tunic and placing it down beside him.

Kanrik responds quickly before the assassin can say anything else. He tosses another shirt at Simeon — some odd shade of green with a gold lace that only Kanrik could pull off. “I don’t know,” Kanrik says, his focus still buried as deep into the drawer’s contents as his hands are. “You just...” He pauses to look up at the ceiling, twirling one hand in the air while he thinks. He eventually just huffs for a fourth time, then begins his useless searching again. “You’re always so _dashing_ ,” he eventually settles on saying, putting enough gross emphasis on the word that it doesn’t sound at all flattering.

Simeon’s laughter is whole this time. “I’m _dashing?_ ” he says. “Since when have _I_ been _dashing?_ ”

“Since you rinsed all the blood off your face,” Kanrik mumbles without missing a beat, then tosses another tunic at Simeon — black as a Crokabek’s down.

Simeon’s laughter fades into a snarky chuckle as he catches the black tunic, then places it beside the others. “So, since about an hour ago, then?” he says, his words almost painfully sarcastic.

Kanrik rolls his eyes again, then tosses one last thing over to Simeon — another, darker shade of green. “Yes.”

Simeon just snickers.

Kanrik gives up on his search when nothing else catches his eye. He turns to look at Simeon, still seeming uncharacteristically nervous, folding his arms across his chest. “I mean...” He didn’t realise he was talking until it was too late. He looks Simeon up and down, getting a little irritated — or flustered, rather — when he sees the assassin giving him that goddamn cocky half-smile that he hates so much — hates because of how much he loves it. He decides to just finish the thought. Maybe they’ll _both_ be embarrassed, then. That’s usually the only way to get Simeon to shut up, after all. “I mean look at you,” he says, flipping an impassive hand in Simeon’s direction.

Simeon does the embarrassing thing — actually looks down to examine himself. He sees nothing special, though. Sure, he’s not wearing a cloak and cowl for once, and he’s let down a few locks of his hair beside his eyes, and the colours of his outfit are slightly brighter shades of coffee and cream than usual, but it’s absolutely nothing remarkable.

Kanrik walks over to grab one of the shirts from beside Simeon. “You just... always look nice... when you want to,” he continues, his voice trailing away into nothing.

The honesty in his tone keeps Simeon from teasing any further... or from acknowledging the backhanded compliment. He looks up at Kanrik as the thief pulls on the black tunic, holding it tight around his waist rather than getting a belt.

Simeon can’t bring himself to laugh at Kanrik’s awkward nervousness this time.

He’s just _staring_.

Well, staring, and then his mouth starts running again. “I only look nice now in comparison to what I _normally_ look like,” he says, too playful to be self-deprecating, and Kanrik just rolls his eyes for a third time.

Kanrik steps beside the bureau to look into the elegant golden mirror that rests beside it, examining his reflection frustratedly. “Too much black,” he mumbles at himself — and, true, the tunic combined with black trousers and black boots is a little too much for a casual night out. He takes the top off in one swift, irritated motion, then throws it back into the drawer.

And this is when Simeon’s smile starts to become replaced by a blush.

Not enough to be noticed, though, as Kanrik turns towards him, gesturing with his fingers for another piece of clothing.

Simeon obliges wordlessly — hands Kanrik the red tunic.

The thief pulls it on, now muttering a bit under his breath.

Simeon just watches silently now. He doesn’t realise it, but he’s started to slow his breathing. He leans forward, his elbows on his knees, his cheeks on his fists, his thoughts nowhere else but on Kanrik.

Kanrik is too distracted to notice Simeon’s softening posture. He takes the shirt off, tosses it back at Simeon — it hits the grey Gelert in the face in his distraction, and he leans back with an audible breath as he pulls it out of his eyes — then gestures — not looking — for another shirt.

Simeon gives Kanrik a nasty glare as he tosses the darker green tunic over to him.

Kanrik _immediately_ decides that he doesn’t like it anymore. “Fuck, I just... dark colours... ughh... never, fuck this,” and he tucks it back in the drawer.

Simeon tosses him the last garment — the gold-laced one — before Kanrik even asks, then takes the same position as before again — hands on his knees, fists against his cheeks, wide-eyed and staring and just ever so slightly smiling.

Kanrik flattens the tunic’s front, turns to his left, fixes his shoulders, turns to his right, then huffs for what seems like the millionth time at this point. He grabs the back of his shirt and pulls it off in another swift motion. “My hair is a _goddamn_ mess, and it’s making everything _else_ look like a goddamn mess,” he groans, then tosses the tunic back at Simeon while he begins to try to detangle his messy black locks.

Simeon hardly moves when the garment lands draped over his shoulder. He’s just too entranced.

Kanrik isn’t even _trying_ to look seductive in this moment — he just _is._ He’s got that frustrated glimmering in his bright green eyes that Simeon loves so much — his feistiness manifested in jade and emerald — and he’s always looked cute with a scowl. Kanrik stands straight to flex his shoulders and run his fingers through his hair, the strong muscles of his shoulders rippling with each motion, his eyes closing shut for a brief second as he stretches some of his irritation away. The dim light from the candles scattered across the room and the torches that dance on the walls cast shadows across his every curve, his hips pronounced, his shoulders broad, and the pleasantly defined Venusian dimples on his lower back shadowed to exaggerate the allure. He looks as if he’d been handcrafted by Fyora herself — the living embodiment of perfection. A god amongst mortals. A being of overwhelming beauty that artists could only _dream_ of capturing in marble and stone.

Simeon doesn’t realise just how lost he is until he hears Kanrik say a surprisingly loud, surprisingly irritated, “Why are you staring at me like that?”

Simeon is shocked enough at the sound that he bolts upright, needing to blink fast to bring himself back to this moment. Kanrik still looks frustrated as he and the assassin meet eyes... but it slowly turns smug. _Very_ smug.

Thankfully, a decent excuse comes to Simeon quickly. “I was, uh...” He takes a deep breath — looks down, then meets Kanrik’s eyes again. “I was just... thinking... that the red looks best on you, dearest,” he says, and Kanrik’s expression immediately changes to one of... apology, almost. Almost. “It, uh...” Simeon awkwardly tries to continue, picking the red tunic off the bed beside him and holding it out for Kanrik to take. “It... contrasts your fur, and complements your eyes, so...”

Kanrik’s begun to blush a bit now. Something about Simeon’s tone has changed in the past few minutes. _Drastically_ changed. It sounds almost completely foreign. Completely heartfelt. Completely... no, no, it isn’t _that_...

Kanrik swallows uncomfortably hard, then slowly takes the tunic from Simeon’s hands. “Um...” He clears his throat. Then, “Alright,” he says, smiling a bit, then turns back to face the mirror. “If you say so.”

Simeon just rests his elbows on his knees again, watching as Kanrik argues with his hair.

 

~

II:

Simeon doesn’t look up as Kanrik approaches his usual table at the tavern.

The assassin has the entirety of his attention buried in another dirty old book — or so it seems — though he clearly hears Kanrik’s distinctively heavy footsteps approaching. Simeon takes a sip of his brandy as Kanrik pulls the now-empty chair across from him back, then slides into the seat comfortably. He’d been eyeing Simeon from across the bar for far too long now, watching as his expression slowly darkened, and his patience slowly waned, and the purple Draik he was meeting to make a contract with blabbered on, and on, and on, and on...

But they’re together now, and that’s all that matters.

It’s all become an honest habit at this point — for the both of them. Just a pattern. Second nature. Kanrik makes small talk with the barmaid and flirts a bit to get a few free drinks while he waits for Simeon’s work to conclude, then Simeon gives him a knowing look from across the room, then Kanrik makes a quick excuse to leave, then he walks his way to Simeon’s table with infallible confidence, and then they’re suddenly talking. They don’t even need to say hello anymore. They don’t even need to meet eyes. They are just, immediately... together. “You’re too polite to people, Simmy,” Kanrik says as he leans back in his seat casually, taking a sip of the scotch in his hands. “You should have told that Draik to shut up and leave a half hour ago.”

Simeon shrugs, then flips the page of his book. “Well,” he slowly begins in a mumble, “I spend so much time treating _you_ like shit that it’s nice to treat someone with _respect_ for a change.”

Kanrik kicks him hard in the shin from under the table. Simeon winces, then smiles just the slightest bit. “It’s true,” he adds, raising his eyes to give Kanrik that goddamn _look_.

Kanrik kicks him hard again. This time, they both smile.

Kanrik is only frustrated, though, because Simeon’s comment sounded half-genuine. “Well, I would suggest that you treat _me_ nice for once,” he says, trying to mirror Simeon’s cocky half-smile, though he’s only half-successful, “but by this point, if I did, and you _agreed_ , I would honestly be worried about your health.” Simeon’s smile turns a bit warmer. If it were anyone else making that sort of joke, his hand might begin travelling to the sword at his hip, but... something about Kanrik scolding him just makes him feel warm. “Or,” Kanrik continues, leaning forward a bit over the table and folding his hands, “you would decline, then kill me, then throw out some excuse like, ‘It’s the kindest thing I could do for a petty thief like you.’ ”

Simeon’s smile then turns a bit frustrated, but still caring. He knows by this point that Kanrik likes trying to provoke him — something about the adrenaline rush from Simeon’s half-threatening claws against his throat, or so he’s come to figure — but... they’re in public. He refuses to fall for it. He refuses to feed it. “Cheeky,” he mumbles, shaking his head slightly, then he turns his attention back towards his book.

Kanrik leans forward more to rest his cheek on his fist, his elbow almost at the centre of the small table. He knows that the two of them being this close makes Simeon feel incredibly flustered, and he _loves_ it. Again, still, Simeon knows that the thief does this shit on purpose, but he doesn’t mind — or, at least, the loudest part of him doesn’t. Kanrik’s a tease, and that’s one of the most thrilling things about him. He’s just so enticing. So seductive. So... craveable...

Kanrik suddenly snickers, snapping Simeon out of his rather sensual daydream. “Usually when you get that look on your face,” Kanrik says, his tone a perfect reflection of his own obnoxious smile, “you’re staring at _me_ , not a bunch of words on a page...”

Simeon looks up at him angrily — quickly — crossing his legs to try to prevent anything physical from resulting from his thoughts. When he meets Kanrik’s sparkling green eyes, though, he finds himself blushing.

Kanrik keeps talking before Simeon can say anything, quickly looking Simeon up and down to silently acknowledge that he saw the nervous shift in position. He chuckles. “Must be a rather... _stimulating_ read...”

“Shut the fuck up,” Simeon mumbles, sounding a little too honestly angry, lowering his gaze again.

Kanrik is smug as ever, though. He knows Simeon’s irritation is rooted solely in his embarrassment. “Frustrated, are we?” Kanrik teases.

“Stop.”

“Why?”

“Because.”

“Because why?”

“Because.”

Kanrik leans forward more, half trying to provoke him, half trying to darken his blush. “ _Wwwhy?_ ” he whispers, his tone the purest, gawkiest sarcasm.

And Simeon has to purse his lips to keep from laughing. He snorts awkwardly. “I fucking hate you,” he eventually says with a snaggletoothed grin, looking up to meet Kanrik’s eyes once again.

He expects Kanrik to have that look on his face that he gets when he’s trying to be flirty, or when he knows he’s getting under someone’s skin, but... he actually looks surprisingly calm now. He’s still got that annoying smirk, sure, but his typical adoring flush is coming back. He’s resting more of his weight on his fist now rather than leaning as much of himself over the table as he can. His head is tilted slightly, his gaze resting everywhere and nowhere, and he’s drinking in Simeon’s features as he does so often when they’re alone. Simeon’s expression finally softens a bit as he sees this. It’s still a bit frustrating, but...

Simeon dog-ears a page of his book, then closes it gently. The motions catch Kanrik slightly off-guard, and he cocks an eyebrow at the sight. The two of them usually sit and chat for a while before leaving the tavern, making it seem as though they’re doing business and nothing more, just to ensure that their departing together seems nothing but professional; but... it hasn’t been enough time yet...

Simeon pushes his book aside, then leans forward with a sigh. He mirror’s Kanrik’s posture — which for him, honestly, is nothing short of completely foreign. “I _hate_ when you do this,” Simeon mumbles as the gap between them closes.

Now Kanrik is _purely_ confused... but he’s not complaining. He slowly begins to move a hand forward to reach for Simeon’s seemingly nervous fingers. “Do what?” he asks as he brushes his fingertips down Simeon’s knuckles, honestly curious — and, given the fluttering in his stomach, suddenly somewhat... eager.

Simeon hesitates for only a second longer, then lifts his hand to entwine his fingers with Kanrik’s. His expression is suddenly washed with what looks strangely like wistfulness. Strange, because it doesn’t at all match the words that escape his lips in a whisper: “Make me want to kiss you in public.”

 

~

III:

“Well, I could go for a drink.”

That’s the first thing Kanrik says when he’s finally pulled back to Neopia from the cloud which he’s called home for the past hour or so.

And, at first, Simeon just slowly begins to raise his eyes from his reading.

As with most nights that end like this — or, sometimes, _begin_ like this — depending on the weather, in a sense — they spend a blissfully long period of time simply enjoying each other’s existence as their breathing slows and their heartbeats steady. Eventually, they half-dress themselves and relax into the warmth of each other’s bodies. Eventually, Kanrik will stretch his arms and back and make endearing little moaning noises as his joints crack — which Simeon always snickers at. Eventually, Simeon will sit straight with a little sigh of relaxation and pick back up whatever he was reading beforehand while Kanrik stares at the ceiling thinking of who-knows-what. Eventually, one of them has to speak.

And Kanrik just happened to be first this time.

Still, once Simeon finally grasps the English language again and realises what Kanrik’s said, he gives the thief an honestly offended sideways glance, throwing the book in his hands down into his lap audibly — theatrically. “Was it _really_ so terrible?” he says, though he’s pretty sure from the way that Kanrik was practically screaming his name — and the names of _several_ gods — that that isn’t the case.

And Kanrik knows that Simeon knows. It’s clear in his tone, and Kanrik knows he’s bad at hiding his obsessions in the moment. He just bats a hand in the assassin’s direction, making a little “ _feh_ ” noise, then turns to stand.

Turns to stand... then immediately stumbles.

Simeon quickly closes his book, tossing it to the foot of the bed, then scrambles to Kanrik’s side as the thief tries to steady his footing, laughing loudly — snorting embarrassingly — at his own clumsiness. “Kani, are you alright?” Simeon asks, both worried and confused, taking a light hold of the thief’s arm.

It’s been barely a few seconds, but Kanrik’s blush already seems eternal. He covers his mouth with one hand and steadies himself with the other against the bed, still snorting a bit into his palm. “Oh Fyora... I’m fine, I’m just...” He snorts again, but that just makes him laugh harder. “My, uhm... my knees are just really weak right now.”

And they are. Once he’s said it, Simeon looks him up and down, and finds that the thief is almost completely trembling. It’s not the first time this has happened, but... it’s the first time it’s persisted for so long. Simeon, too, now begins to blush at the sight. _Well, I guess I did a good job..._ He immediately scolds himself for thinking the thought, clearing his throat awkwardly. “Yeah, that, uh... happens sometimes,” he awkwardly mumbles, just trying to fill the silence to pretend like his own embarrassing thoughts didn’t just exist, releasing his light grasp to cross his legs and fix himself back into a more casual position.

Kanrik doesn’t seem to mind whatever-the-hell it is Simeon’s saying, anyway. He’s too busy just trying to take his weight off of his arms and stand — to prove he’s strong, or something like that. The way he wobbles makes him look like nothing short of a baby Babaa, though. It’s honestly adorable.

Simeon snickers as Kanrik finally manages to stand, his muscles trembling, then just decides to be obnoxious. He quickly slides over to slightly behind where Kanrik now stands, throws his legs over the side of the bed, then scoops Kanrik’s knees out from under him, catching his back in his other arm. He lifts Kanrik into the air in the same second that he stands up, and Kanrik is too honestly shocked to scream. He just gasps loudly and throws his arms around Simeon’s neck.

Simeon laughs louder as Kanrik gives him a painful punch in the back. “ _Warn me!_ ” Kanrik scolds, though he’s laughing just as hard as Simeon is in this moment.

Simeon kisses his scarred cheek. “Next time,” he says.

Kanrik hugs Simeon tighter as he is carried over towards the shelves where he stores his opened liquor. Simeon sets the thief down on the top of the desk that rests a few feet away from it, though Kanrik steps down immediately, holding himself upright on the edge of the desk with his hands, trying to force his knees to stay straight. “What were you thinking of, dearest?” Simeon asks as he begins to poke through the bottles on the shelf.

Kanrik hardly hears him, though. He’s too busy just... staring.

Simeon isn’t usually very fond of being seen without being completely dressed; and, honestly, despite how many times the two have been together like this by this point, Kanrik still isn’t used to seeing him looking so... vulnerable, he supposes. Especially like this — in the torchlight, standing casually, his spine straight and his hair down and his eyes smiling almost as perpetually as his always-soft lips...

It’s here that Kanrik starts to really realise that Simeon is perfect. He looks the assassin up and down, drinking in his every detail, then leans against the desk a little less reluctantly as he feels his everything starting to melt. Simeon is just... so lithe, but still so strong — strong enough to carry him across the room and make him feel safe in his arms. In the firelight, Kanrik sees the scatterings of nearly invisible spots across Simeon’s shoulders that he could get lost in like a starry sky. He sees a lifetime’s worth of scars, telling a lifetime’s worth of stories, painting Simeon’s body like a canvas with tales of woe and hardship. He sees his true nature — something so hidden from most everyone else in the world — in the way that he holds himself so humbly. Everything about Simeon, he sees with love, and he loves to death. He loves his body’s curves and his face’s jagged profile, and he loves his soft white hair and deliciously dark timbre. He loves the way their fur looks contrasted beside each other, and he loves the way Simeon’s amber eyes shine warmer than the sun against the greyness of his cheeks. He loves the modest way Simeon carries himself, and even more so the aggressive way that Simeon carries _him_. He just... loves Simeon, honestly. Everything about him is just...

“...Why are you looking at me like that?”

Simeon asks the question this time.

And Kanrik is snapped out of his daydream with a bit of a start, raising his eyes in a mild sort of panic. “Umm...”

Simeon didn’t realise he was being gawked at. It’s... ridiculously foreign. _Uncomfortably_ foreign. He’s honestly not as confident as he’d like the world to think he is, and Kanrik is the only one who truly knows this...

Still, even though it’s just Kanrik, Simeon finds himself feeling a bit uncomfortable... but flattered, still, he supposes; especially when he sees that Kanrik’s persistent blush has trailed its way to his ears.

Though Simeon is now smiling at the thought, he was still honestly hoping that catching Kanrik off-guard with the question would leave him too embarrassed to respond; but, unfortunately, Kanrik decides to be honest — for once. “Because...” He swallows hard. “You’re, um... Incredibly attractive,” Kanrik says softly, lowering his head a bit in shyness, looking down and away. He would shift his weight or do some other nervous habit of his if he could, but... his legs are still too weak right now. He just tears his gaze from Simeon’s shadowed honeycomb eyes.

Simeon feels his face flush a bit more, but...

He clears his throat awkwardly, then continues with what he was doing — uselessly picking through bottles and glasses. “So... red wine as usual, then, yes?”

Kanrik, too, then clears his throat — loudly. “Ah, um... yes, that sounds, um...”

He finally looks up to stare Simeon in the face again.

Oh, right.

Kanrik had almost forgotten.

Simeon is, just...

“...Perfect,” Kanrik slowly concludes.

 

~

IV-I:

Simeon’s got his head held in his hands when Kanrik re-enters his room, and the thief cringes a bit at the sight.

He knows that look that Simeon’s got — his ears drooping halfway to the floor, his tail curled nervously around his crossed ankles, his ribcage collapsed and his expression unnaturally blank...

He’s getting lost in his memories again.

But... why now?

He thought they were having such a good night...

Kanrik isn’t sure if he should interrupt. It’s not like the assassin is doing anything harmful. He’s not drinking, and he’s not crying, and he’s not shaking, and he’s not muttering to himself. He just looks... pained.

Not like this isn’t something Kanrik is used to dealing with. He’s known Simeon long enough that his constantly getting caught in the wake of all that once was isn’t at all unusual. He catches Simeon absentmindedly toying with his wedding ring almost daily, and staring towards the Brightvale coast each time the seawinds drift towards them. He’s come to know the distinct glimmer in his golden eyes when he’s slowly trailing away to the past, and he can tell in the sound of his breathing when he’s starting to get lost there. He knows this. He’s used to it.

But this still seems... different.

And it worries him.

But what does he do? What should he say? “Are you alright” seems useless, “What are you thinking” seems intrusive, “Can I help you” is ridiculously informal...

Maybe nothing is actually wrong with Simeon, though. Maybe he’s just tired. He had a busy day today — whatever “busy” for him ever entails. He _does_ look comfortable in just his shirt and trousers, his hair down and draped over one shoulder... There’s nothing _outwardly_ solemn about him. In fact... it’s almost endearing in the way he so gently holds himself upright in this moment. The way his fingers tangle his hair, and the way he gently drags his toes across the floor, and the way his chest — his shoulders — slowly rise and fall with each breath, and the way his lips are slightly pursed, and the way his eyes are half-open and glistening, and the way he’s just so goddamn beautiful and funny and smart and perfect and...

Oh.

But Kanrik doesn’t have enough time to be embarrassed by his suddenly shifted thoughts before Simeon finally breaks the silence. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

Kanrik didn’t realise he was biting his nails until he raises his eyes to meet the assassin’s.

 _Now_ the embarrassment hits — but from his own posture rather than the words in his head.

Kanrik clears his throat awkwardly, then lowers his hands to lace them gently in front of him. If these were different circumstances, he would probably get a flustered blush, or stutter trying to come up with an excuse, or look nervously around the room for something to distract himself with, but... he’s too grounded to the honesty of his initial thoughts to lie. He’s still worried, after all; and something in the way Simeon’s eyes shine right now...

It’s different.

It’s new.

It’s... actually a bit disconcerting. _What does that mean?_

“I was just... wondering what you were thinking about,” Kanrik admits, giving up on trying to find some better wording, his voice hushed to an almost foreign colour. “You looked...” Pause. “ _Look_... incredibly pensive.”

Simeon makes a forced sort of pout, then moves slightly over on the bed, wordlessly requesting Kanrik to sit with him.

And Kanrik does so — slowly. He takes a few steps forward. “Are you, uh...” A few more steps. “Is something, uh...” A few more steps. “What’s... on your mind?” And he finally sits down — distanced, still.

Simeon doesn’t raise his eyes from the floor below his feet. That glimmer is still there, though it dances. It shifts. _He_ shifts. He breathes deep, and he closes his eyes, and then... then he uncrosses his ankles. His ears perk up. He straightens his spine. He looks over to Kanrik, and he gives him a smile. “I was just thinking that... well...”

Pause.

 

IV-II

Oh Fyora, what the hell is he thinking?

Simeon sits on the edge of Kanrik’s bed, tangling his hair in one hand, anxiously drumming the fingers of his other on his knee. Why is he thinking about this? How could he do this? How could he let this happen?

_She would be so upset..._

His thoughts are a violent storm brewing. He can feel it in his spine — feel the shaking and whining that always comes with these goddamned reveries. Feel his stomach beginning to knot itself. Feel his heartbeat begging to climb. Feel the burning in the back of his throat. Feel the pressure behind his eyes. He hates this all. He hates his thoughts. He hates himself. _She probably hates me, too..._

But, the more he comes to think about it...

Maybe she doesn’t hate him.

After all... didn’t she always say that she just wanted him to be happy?

That’s what she said she’d wanted when they first began to speak back in Market Town, all those long, long years ago. That’s what she said she’d wanted when she asked him out to dinner, and asked him back to her villa, and asked if she could kiss him deep, and asked if she could kiss him everywhere. That’s what she said she’d wanted when she dropped hints of marriage, and asked him about pets, and asked him about children, and asked him about eternity. That’s what she said she’d wanted that entire time — the entire duration of their knowing each other, and their having each other, and their loving each other. She just wanted to make him happy. She just wanted him to _be_ happy. And, honestly, wherever she may be in this moment — in that big, scary, mysterious afterlife that she now calls home — ... she probably still does.

So then... wouldn’t denying himself the opportunity to be with someone else who makes him happy be shaming her more than embracing the idea of a new love would?

If there’s one thing Simeon knows for sure, it’s that he’ll never be happy again if he stays alone. He’s spent too many nights up restlessly with nobody to talk to and nothing to do about it. Some days, he’s starved himself half to death with nobody to dine with and nobody to remind him to eat. Some nights, he’s exhausted himself to the brink of delirium with nobody to rest with and nobody to comfort him when his nightmares leave him fearing sleep. Maybe he’s just being stubborn, but it honestly just feels like he’s forgotten how to live without... help. Maybe he never even knew how to do that to begin with. After all, he wasn’t happy when he was alone before her, and he hasn’t been happy since she’s left.

Well... no, no, that’s not entirely true.

He _has_ been happy... when he’s with Kanrik.

And that’s the problem.

Kanrik makes him happy, and he’s not sure what to do about it.

Simeon’s mind continues to wander in these same ever-churning circles as he stares blankly at the floor. His thoughts have left him zombified. He’s just going through the motions of material existence while the living part of him in his soul is absorbed into questioning. He doesn’t know what to do. Should he just... let this happen? Should he let himself go? Should he let _her_ go? Should he...

Oh Fyora above, what the hell is he _doing?_ Is he really, _really_ going to let this happen? Let himself get lost in someone else? That’s all something he had said — he had _sworn_ — he would never, _ever_ do. He couldn’t disgrace her. He couldn’t forget her. She was his everything — _is_ his everything — and always has been, and always will be, and nobody could ever change that or replace that or replace _her_ , right? He could never, _ever_ feel happy again — not without her...

...Right?

But that just leads him to one last thought.

One last devastating, crippling thought.

A huge part of him _is_ happy again... now that Kanrik is in his life.

Is this...

Is this what moving on feels like?

Simeon suddenly feels so sick he could vomit, though he also realises that he’s been staring at the floor in a deathly silence for who-knows-how-long. Luckily, his embarrassment quickly replaces his nausea, and he can finally feel his diaphragm again. His eternal wistfulness isn’t at all a new phenomenon, but it still feels wrong in this moment. He’s with company, or something. He looks over to his right, trying to search the walls for something to distract himself with... only to see that Kanrik is suddenly standing where once there was nothing but firelight, his eyes studying Simeon hollowly.

Simeon’s mind starts to scramble to protect itself — come up with an excuse, or something — but, now that he’s looking the thief up and down... well, Kanrik seems just as meditative, too, honestly. He’s nervously biting his nails, and his eyes seem somewhat lost — his blinking slow and his breathing steady. He’s looking straight through everything in front of him and has entered another place entirely, it seems. Maybe he’s in the same, confused place that Simeon just was. Maybe he’s questioning everything, too. Maybe he’s coming to a different conclusion...

Simeon then realises that he’s been holding his breath, and his lungs are aching with stagnant air. He opens his mouth to take in the deepest breath he can, and the sudden noise of his inhale — a soft noise made deafening against the silence’s backdrop — jars Kanrik out of his thoughts. The thief looks up in the same second that Simeon’s most currently present thought manages to slip out: “Why are you looking at me like that?”

Kanrik suddenly looks washed with _something_ , though Simeon can’t quite place it. Maybe it’s concern, or embarrassment, or confusion, or... no, no, it isn’t _that_...

Either way, Kanrik has now laced his fingers and is obviously searching for words. “I was just... wondering what you were thinking about,” the thief slowly begins to explain, his tone seeming completely foreign in colour. It actually catches Simeon a bit off-guard. _More_ than a bit. He makes a puzzled face. _Was I really so out of it?_ “You looked...” Pause. “ _Look_... incredibly pensive,” Kanrik continues, and Simeon thinks, _Ah. I guess that’s a “yes.”_

Simeon sighs a bit, but then makes up his mind.

Kanrik is beautiful.

And that’s alright.

He decides to make a wordless request and moves to his left to give the thief space to sit, hoping that the silent gesture is enough to make Kanrik understand.

And it is. The thief has always been good at deciphering Simeon’s odd code of gestures and glares. He slowly begins to approach, still trying to explain himself for a crime he’d never committed. “Are you, uh...” _He seems nervous_. “Is something, uh...” _He doesn’t usually stutter this long._ “What’s... on your mind?” Kanrik finally manages to say, then takes his seat beside Simeon, though distanced still — worried, probably.

Well... Simeon _thought_ he’d made up his mind, but...

Now the floor has caught all his interest again, just because he hates what he wants to do.

But... no, no...

Just...

_Fuck it._

Simeon breathes deep, and closes his eyes to cleanse his thoughts, then finally looks over to the thief again, finding that he can’t help but smile as he meets those beautiful green eyes. “I was just thinking that... well...”

Pause.

Kanrik looks almost scared.

And that makes Simeon laugh a bit.

So he quickly leans over and pulls the thief into a tight hug, kissing his forehead softly. He gently begins to comb his fingers through the thief’s hair; then, “I love you, Kanrik,” he whispers in his ear.

And the firelight seems to dim.

And the air seems to warm.

And the room seems to expand into a vastness of space for the two to exist in alone.

Then, there is silence.

Well... silence, except for the lingering overtones of Kanrik’s soft, whispered, “I love you, too, Simeon.”


End file.
